


I'm a screamer baby make me a mute

by Jojolightningfingers



Category: Deadman Wonderland
Genre: Biting, M/M, No Sex, taken to 11 tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 11:09:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6903415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jojolightningfingers/pseuds/Jojolightningfingers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He clamps down as hard as he can, jerks and twists until he punctures skin. He bites down harder, harder—muscle gives way under the assault and an all-too-familiar smell hits his nose, a coppery tang washes over his tongue. Fibers snap, the muscle spasms, and Genkaku is screaming.</p><p>Genkaku is screaming, but he isn't fighting back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm a screamer baby make me a mute

The needles prick like fish-hooks, reeling in memory after struggling memory from the murky bowels of Nagi's mind. They thrash and flitter here and there in the peripheries of his vision—monstrous, red, half-formed things that scream with the voices of dying men. The sheer number of them overwhelm him—so many and so similar to one another that they all blur into a single one. Red. Red and wet. A shapeless red mass in a plexiglass tube. Nagi moans, the sound pained and mournful.

“Are you finally starting to remember?” The Undertaker's voice snakes around his doped-out brain, wringing every drop of memory from him like a sponge. His outline wavers before Nagi's eyes like smoke—only his grin is unaffected, the perfect image of a disappearing Cheshire Cat. The room is melting at the edges, snatching for the past and pushing it insistently before Nagi's eyes. Red, raw stitches crisscrossing a precisely straight cut.

“What is this?” Nagi groans, powerless to do more than watch. His mind is in shambles; he knows he should be struggling but the drugs have made his muscles slack. The wires have been cut and the synapses fire in vain. Emotion beats against the inside of his skull and claws his heart to tatters. Disbelief. Denial. Revulsion. Sorrow. Fear. Fury. “What _is this_?!” he cries, demanding answers. Red spattered on the walls like paint, red soaked black into the carpeted floor, hands—his hands—drenched in slick, grimy red.

This is all wrong.

“Oh, but it isn't.”

Don't listen to him. He lies. They all lie.

“Owl.” Nagi's gaze drops from the ceiling. Red like gutted bodies, red like rage burning his insides down to cinders.

“Look at me, Owl.” His eyes focus. Genkaku's smile grows closer, his red, red hair slashing in front of his face. The mere sight of him makes Nagi so angry he feels physically ill. His stomach knots terribly, the stump of his severed arm throbs. The distortions from earlier are gone, the weakness and the nausea.

He remembers. He remembers _everything._

“You,” Nagi whispers hoarsely, fighting off the numbing effects of the tranquilizers. He strains against his bonds, thrashing with renewed fire. “You—!”

Genkaku grins and giggles like an excited little boy, picking up his Flying V and aiming it at the space where Nagi's arm used to be. “I've _saved_ you, Owl,” he says, passion coloring his tone. His eyes are wide and wild. “Now—will you save me?” The head of the guitar opens and a report splits the air, shattering the beads holding Nagi down.

Nagi lunges at him with a feral scream, landing on him and the couch in a heap of limbs and teeth, sharp edges and roiling emotion. Genkaku easily restrains the one arm he does have, but beyond that he makes not a single move to stop Nagi from doing what he wanted with him. That should mean something to him. It doesn't.

He doesn't for an instant consider using his Branch on him. His slaughter is not mindless—he seeks catharsis, an easing of the pain in his heart that he knows will never go away. For the rank and file, billions of swift and messy deaths are enough for him. For the demon who ripped away his light, that is too merciful—too quick, too painless. He will perish slowly, a ritual sacrifice to his own destructive god.

Nagi bares his teeth, straining to free his arm from Genkaku's iron grip. His fruitless efforts frustrate him; he grits his jaw so hard his teeth ache. It becomes unbearable very suddenly; Nagi roars and his head snaps forward, his teeth latch onto the muscles holding together his neck and shoulder and he bites. He clamps down as hard as he can, jerks and twists until he punctures skin. He bites down harder, _harder_ —muscle gives way under the assault and an all-too-familiar smell hits his nose, a coppery tang washes over his tongue. Fibers snap, the muscle spasms, and Genkaku is screaming.

Genkaku is screaming, but he isn't fighting back. On the contrary, he's embracing it. The last rational part of Nagi's mind ponders this—the rest of him doesn't know and doesn't care. He locks his jaw, pulls and tears. He comes back with a raw hunk of meat in his mouth, glaring down at his prey as he spits the flesh to the side. They're both breathing hard, but for entirely different reasons. Humans aren't designed to kill with their mouths—Nagi's jaw aches with exertion. Genkaku's panting like a bitch in heat, much more aroused than someone with a gaping wound in their shoulder has any right to be. The monk stretches back on the couch with a radiant expression, bleeding freely on the upholstery. “There's my Owl,” he purrs breathlessly, pushing sweat-soaked hair out of his face and reaching up to smear the blood on Nagi's lips with a thumb. “Come on, baby, don't stop now.”

Nagi snarls and drops again. Genkaku must be prepared for the pain now; at the second bite he lets out a throaty, animal cry instead of that awful shriek. Nagi rips away the second bite, tears into another. The hole deepens and widens. Genkaku doesn't even sound in pain anymore—his moans have a lewd cast even to Nagi. By the fourth bite, Genkaku is shaking, both from blood loss and very obvious arousal. The bites hit bone now, a dull white streak mired in the pink and red of mangled muscle. Nagi is fairly certain he's chipped a tooth on his clavicle, so he abandons that wound and starts anew on the other side. When he sinks his teeth into unbroken skin, the monk makes a positively whorish noise, wrapping his legs tight around Nagi's waist and pitching his hips up hard enough for Nagi to feel the turgid line of his cock prod him in the belly.

“Owl,” Genkaku moans, clutching at Nagi as though he were a lover.

Nagi hates him, he hates him _so much_. He rips at him, tooth and nail, his arm long ago returned to his control. Arm and shoulder, face and neck. He bites off a chunk of his bicep, shreds a piece of his lip in a mockery of a kiss, tears off one cheek nearly down to the bone. His nails rake wet tracks into his belly, frenziedly seeking viscera. Through it all, Genkaku moans and squirms, crying out in pain and pleasure. He grinds on Nagi with the fever of a madman, the fervor of a zealot.

“Not enough,” Genkaku rasps, “It's not enough, Owl—fuck, please, I _know_ you can't be satisfied with this, come on, give me more!” His hands grasp the back of Nagi's shirt. Nagi looks up in time to see him run his tongue along the tattered edge of his mouth, lapping up as much blood as he can. The look he gives Nagi is pure black lust, smoldering in the soulless pits of his eyes.

He should not be enjoying this. Nagi hisses between his teeth, so angry that his inability to think has circled back on itself and given him one clear thought. That lustful gaze is absolutely intolerable. It must go.

Nagi rears back and jams his fingers into Genkaku's right eye. Blood and humors squirt out and dribble oil-like down his cheek. Genkaku _screeches_ , shaking the walls with the horrendous noise, but he quickly learns not to struggle for fear of making it hurt worse. That's what Nagi was hoping for. Satisfaction flickers hot in his chest. He plunges his thumb into the opposite corner and with a sharp twist and a sickening squelch, he yanks Genkaku's ruined eye from its socket. Genkaku's screaming drowns out the pop of the optic nerve snapping. The eyeball is discarded on the floor with the other pieces of him. The monk clutches at the bleeding hole, wailing and sobbing wetly like an undignified child. Tears fall into the ragged wound on his cheek, stinging sharply. Blood leaks between his sallow fingers.

He looks at Nagi with fear, with wonder, with love. “Owl,” he breathes, his voice watery and distorted. “Oh _Owl_ , I'm so close...” His faded hold on Nagi's waist strengthens again, pushing Nagi's weight against the bulge between his legs.

Nagi's Branch boils out of the blood on his hand. Genkaku has enough time to widen his remaining eye in abject surprise before Nagi shoves it up against his abdomen and lets it detonate. He's been so weakened that it has barely enough force to tear open the toughest part of his hide, but that's all Nagi wants. He claws through the remaining tissue barrier and buries his hand in to the wrist. Nagi drags the priest's guts out in long, slimy ropes, leaving them strewn on the carpet like so much sodden red ribbon.

Genkaku makes the most exquisite noise when he catches sight of them flung aside like garbage—a wet, gagging retch that makes his whole body convulse for an instant. He's no longer screaming—presumably, the pain was simply too great for him to feel anymore. What a shame, Nagi thinks. He jerks another foot of entrails out into open air, soaking the front of their clothes with the accompanying gout of blood. Genkaku spasms and gasps like a hooked fish. He's fading fast, and with the last of his strength he looks Nagi in the eyes, raises a hand and touches his cheek. Loss of blood and shock have left him weak; he draws in labored breaths, his fingers slide down to brush an old, familiar scar. He lingers there, a grin slowly spreading over his face, proud and pleased.

Nagi grabs Genkaku by the hair and wrenches his head back, exposing his throat. Through deafening fury, he hears one gurgling laugh, and then it is done. The screaming in his head begins to quiet down.

When Nagi stands, he regards what he has wrought, breathing hard around the windpipe clenched in his jaw. The corpse before him died with a slack, stupid grin and a hand between its legs, Priapus on his sanguine throne. The skin is alabaster pale now, waxy and white.

Nagi crushes the delicate hyoid bone between his teeth and spits the bloody mass onto the floor, smashing it to pulp under his geta. He steps around the cooling body and makes for the door. One down.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I am well aware that this title is in entirely poor taste, thank you


End file.
